The Duel of the Decade
by roisaber
Summary: Disgraced Daemon Sultan Barack Obama is sent to Tzeentch's gladiatorial games in order to prove himself in combat against another former president whose-name-must-not-be-spoken. Will the match be enough to placate Tzeentch's fury, and can Lady Gaga manage keep her panties unpooped? All that and more in this deplorable paean to parodic excess.


It was hard to say what, exactly, was sitting in the throne of Tzeentch. At the moment it looked like a tesseract made of prismatic darkness, which undulated and folded in and out of itself while his handmaiden Lady Gaga watched in growing discomfort. Finally, she took a deep breath and delivered the latest report from the front. Tzeentch rotated inscrutably.

"Sir, I'm afraid the effort to hold Saint's Inferno has failed. Imperium forces staged a breakthrough at four hundred hours local time, and heavy shelling at the world's primary spaceport prevented adequate resupply of our front line units. At oh five ten, Daemon Sultan Barack Obama gave the order for a general retreat. At oh nine hundred the spaceport was taken and remaining forces of the Tzeentch 23rd were abandoned in order to allow the fleet to make its escape. Total losses are estimated at no less than 45,000 infantry, 2,350 armored vehicles, 600 aircraft, one light cruiser, 2 frigates, 3 corvettes, and our complete expulsion from Saint's Inferno."

Angry purple coils appeared in dark cube. Lady Gaga had survived as Tzeentch's aide-de-camp for almost 22 months and was nearing the record of 26 months set by Madonna Circcone. Gaga had been able to hold on so long by accurately predicting Tzeentch's rapidly changing moods and redirecting his energies towards non-violence, or at least, towards violence directed at someone other than her.

"Milord," she quickly put in before the Chaos god's anger could boil over, "might I suggest sending our dishonored Sultan to the Games?"

There was a gravid pause and Lady Gaga held her breath. If her suggestion didn't pass the muster, or if Tzeentch was just in a rotten mood, he might strike her down and replace her with that usurping bitch Adele without a second thought. Finally, Tzeentch rotated in response. Lady Gaga winced; the feeling of Tzeentch shuffling through her mind, drawing up fragments of language and imagery to use to express His meaning always made her horrifically uncomfortable. Which, of course, was just the way Tzeentch liked it. It was the verbal equivalent of seeing something out of the corner of your eye, turning, and finding nothing there. He slithered among her synapses, discharging some and suppressing others. Suddenly the woman felt the lips of her asshole widen of their own accord, and a look of horror crossed her face as Tzeentch discharged the contents of her bowels into her designer cotton panties. The stink of excrement wafted up from beneath her skirt and Lady Gaga could swear she heard the bastard laughing somewhere in the back of her mind.

Shortly thereafter, he dismissed her with a series of very clear instructions handed down from On High. She paused for only as long as it took to return to her quarters and dig the shit out of her pussy.

The Jonathan Edwards Memorial Stadium reeked of blood and churros. Several warm-up duels preceded the main event, and the sand at the center of the ring was caked with mottled blood. Several members of the audience were being loaded onto stretchers during the ceasefire that separated duels; some were victims of stray bolter rounds fired by the combatants, and others had been wounded or killed in brawls between Blues, Reds, Greens, and Whites. The air was stiflingly hot, adding to the general assault on the senses provided by the coliseum.

Finally, the casualties were removed from the field and the referee came out to announce the main event. Tri-D drone cameras flew over the field, broadcasting the fight to those who couldn't be there in person. The referee was a deceptively small man in a black and white checkered jersey, but the idea that someone might assault a man of such exalted status was beyond imagination.

After all, in the Warp, death was a setback that was often merely temporary.

The ref grabbed the floating mike and his voice echoed throughout giant speakers set up through the enormous concrete structure.

"Welcome one, welcome all, to the Duel. Of. The. Decade! We've seen our warm-up matches, and let me tell you, they were something to tell the grandkids about! But those were nothing – absolutely nothing – compared to what you're all about to see here today! This is the big one, folks, the one you've all been waiting for. You know what I'm talking about!"

It was patter, but the crowd gobbled it up anyway. The opportunity to see such high-ranking members of the Chaos legions tearing into each other was just too good to pass up. The stands were full of Chaos' working class, its cultists and its lesser devotees, the ones who really kept society running like a machine well-slicked with blood.

"Let's meet our fucking challengers!"

This incited another aural eruption from the already frenzied crowd. Screams, cheers, airhorns, Bolter fire, vuvuzelas, and a hundred other noisemakers all tried to drown out the others. The referee let it run for another minute, before finally introducing the destined fighters.

"In this corner, weighing 140 pounds, Daemon Sultan Barack! Hussein! Obama!"

Cheers and boos erupted from the stands. Barack Obama looked much has he had in life – a simpering, prancing faggot. He strode from his ready room and briefly basked in the adulation – and contempt – coming from the crowd. He carried a small Bolter pistol in his right hand at a distance, as though the weapon frightened him. He waved to the stands, and there were a few raucous cheers from supporters – and a great many jeers as well. Emboldened, he did a little jig, and his purple cheongsam fluttered in the wind. A cultist on the second deck threw an entire potted cactus at him but the missile fell short.

"And in this corner, please welcome our reigning champion, weighing in at 22,422 pounds, Daemon George! Walker! Bush!"

A tortured, mutant thing slowly lumbered into the arena to cheers and catcalls. George Bush was barely alive, a mere jumble of biological material kept in a form of hideous unlife by a series of wires and tubes. One crazed, bloodshot eye peered out from a bloody mass of tissue, and a necrotic heart pumped wildly, trying to oxygenate enough fluid to keep the goop respirating.

The wheezing Dreadnought that carried him almost stumbled to the ground as it dragged itself across the sand towards the center of the arena, and it was clearly in no better shape than its owner. It leaked hydraulic fluid as it walked, and a wreath of acrid smoke followed it like an unlaid ghost. The brutish thing suddenly through its head back, and uttered a ghastly wail of agony from its loudspeakers that drowned out even the uncontrolled din of the spectators. Young teenagers pointed and laughed at its torment.

"Alright, I want a good clean fight to the death!" the PA boomed throughout the coliseum of screaming fans. "No weeping, no sobbing, no wailing, and definitely no fucking crying."

It continued, "All of us here at the Jonathan Edwards Memorial Stadium want to dedicate this fight to Tzeentch, the indomitable, the invincible, the inscrutable Lord of Change!"

Only cheers this time. Tzeentch watched, if the god could really be said to watch, from a raised dais with a close view of the field. It was surrounded by obvious shields and magical runes, and could withstand a full planetary Exterminatus with its protectees intact. Lady Gaga was there too, sitting on a throne at Tzeentch's feet, and she waved wanly to the cheering crowd and hoped that Tzeentch wouldn't get any amusing ideas in front of the hundreds of thousands in the audience.

"Are you ready to ruuuuumbblllleeee!?"

If anything, the roar of the crowd got even louder.

An incredible crack of gunfire echoed in the stadium as the referee's specially modified pistol barked the start of the match. At once, Obama and Bush sized each other up. Obama certainly had the advantage in speed and agility, but he was far too cowardly to have any experience with weapons, preferring to employ thugs and bureaucrats to do his dirty work. In contrast, George Bush was armed to the teeth with a Heavy Bolter and Flamer, but his damaged hydraulics badly hampered his mobility and targeting systems. Bush fired first. His Heavy Bolter cracked as he fired a few tracer rounds towards Obama, who deftly outmaneuvered the weapon's targeting system with a clever pirouette. Those in the front rows were weren't hit in the crossfire saw Obama's purple cheongsam ride up and give them a clear view of his hot pink thong – those who witnessed it envied the dead.

The bestial Bush roared and fired again while Obama was still busy trying to figure out which end of the Bolter was the shooty part. Obama quickly moved along the Dreadnought's side to flank it, but even with crippled hydraulics, Bush managed to keep the bedazzled man in clear view. Obama finally figured out how to work the weapon and fired a quick shot at Bush, but the report of his own Bolter was enough to make him wince and almost drop the weapon.

Bush finally spoke, in tones that sounded like they'd been killed, entombed, and dragged back from Hell against their will.

"Ho. Ho. Ho. I. Have. A. Flamer."

"Now look here," Obama stuttered in reply. "That's the kind of slur that-"

He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence. The Flamer roared to life, and Obama turned and ran for dear life, the back of his dress singed by tongues of merciless heat. Bush cackled in delight, still in the nightmarish tone, but his pleasure quickly turned to terror as the Flamer's damaged fuel tank cracked open and started leaking liquid bipropellant all around his feet. Bush tried to shut down the fire-barfing weapon, but the trigger was stuck in the on position and the flames were steadily drawing closer to the leaking bipropellant. With a tremendous effort of will, Bush managed to hurl the entire contraption away from him just before it exploded. There was a flash so intense that many of the spectators later drove home blind. First came the light, and immediately afterwards everyone's ears popped as the overpressure wave first imploded and then exploded in the center of the stadium.

Under the protective shield of Tzeentch's barrier Lady Gaga could only watch helplessly as the disaster unfolded. The two Presidents were left in a shattered daze, while many members of the crowd had been hit by shrapnel and killed. Blood dripped down from the stands and onto the field, while drainage ditches designed for expressly that purpose collected the ichor and shunted it deep within the stadium's interior for gods-knew-what nefarious purpose. By sheer luck, Bush's Dreadnought had shielded Obama from most of the impact, and though his dress was shredded and stained with blood he drunkenly dragged himself back to his feet to scattered cheering from survivors in the stands. The concrete pillar nearest to the explosion suddenly cracked and collapsed, bringing down several sections of the upper decks, mostly under the cheap seats. Lady Gaga didn't need to wait for an official count to guess that thousands of Chaos worshippers had been crushed.

Obama stumbled around aimlessly at first, and then retrieved his Bolter while Bush stood in a stupid heap. Obama fired several times but the small caliber bolts pinged harmlessly off the heavily reinforced Dreadnought armor. After one of the bolts hit the cracked transparasteel that shielded the sack of organs and viscera that constituted his biological form, Bush finally roused himself from his concussion. Survivors in the crowd watched with baited breath. With glacial inevitability, he raised the Dreadnought's fist high over his head, and then brought it down directly onto Barack Obama, shattering the man's spine and sending him sprawling face-down in the bloody dirt.

Tzeentch rotated more vigorously under the shield, and Lady Gaga guessed that his emotion was something like delight. At some invisible signal, several medics jogged out onto the stadium floor with a stretcher and George W. Bush sullenly retreated into his holding cage. Tzeentch had been described in many ways, but the one observation that was indisputably true was that He didn't like to waste anything. Lady Gaga didn't know what plan He had in mind for Obama's shattered body and didn't care to speculate, but there was no doubt that He had called the match for a reason. Though prostrate on the ground and coughing badly, Obama was still trying to make a speech through blood-reddened lips.

"Nnnow, look here, Folks," the man rasped with flooding lungs.

In the skies above the coliseum, Medivac airships jostled for position and occasionally opened fire on one another; each wounded Chaos worshipper was a potential profit center and might require years of expensive treatments. A cloud of heavy asbestos dust hung over the collapsed sections of the stadium like a funeral shroud. George W. Bush was sedated until he reached his resting state of homicidal geniality, and firefighters desperately tried to put out the burning Flamer tank, which was sputtering a geyser of white-hot flame into the air. All in all, a successful event.


End file.
